


Land of Green and Gold

by handwrittenhello



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Farmer Geralt, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia has PTSD, Injury Recovery, M/M, Massage, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Stardew Valley AU, obligatory bath scene, roach is a service dog, tutor jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: After a traumatic accident, Geralt moves to Stardew Valley in an attempt to heal. The townspeople help bring him out of his shell, but none moreso than Jaskier, the young musician with a dark secret. Together, they work through their pasts and find a future worth living.--Based on the game Stardew Valley, but you don't need to have played it! All characters will be from the Witcher universe.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 87
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the stardew valley soundtrack. huge thanks to eyesofshinigami and KHansen for betaing!!

“You can’t sit in your apartment and mope anymore, Geralt. Nenneke tells me you haven’t even shown up for your appointments for weeks now. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep.” Vesemir’s voice on the phone is full of nothing but fatherly concern, but it rankles Geralt anyway.

He grits his teeth, shrugging the phone between his shoulder and ear as he tries to take Roach’s service vest and leash off at the same time. “I’m fine, Vesemir.”

“You’re not fine. You’re barely living, Geralt. Just because you got hurt doesn’t mean you don’t get up again. I taught you better than that.” Geralt doesn’t respond; there’s a tense few moments of silence before Vesemir sighs. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come for a visit, get some fresh air, see the countryside?”

Geralt’s first instinct is to refuse, but he does have to admit that it sounds nice—he grew up in the valley, but hasn’t been back in years, not since he moved to the city. He sighs. “I can’t. What if work calls?”

“We’ve got phones here. Stop making excuses and listen to your old man.”

He casts about for another excuse, but can’t find anything. Ever since the accident he’s been tired, and the hustle and bustle of the city around him hasn’t been helping. “Fine,” he concedes.

“Good. I’ve even got something to keep you occupied—JojaMart leased some old farmland to us, so maybe you can fix it up, plant a garden or something. Sun and soil are good for the mind and soul.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but purchases a bus ticket anyway, and before the week is even up, he finds himself on his way to Stardew Valley with Roach. Being a service dog, she’s very well-behaved, but even still, she and Geralt are both antsy by the end of the six-hour bus ride.

The bus finally rolls to a stop on a dirt road with a rickety signpost next to it. The letters are faded, but Geralt can faintly make out ‘Stardew Valley’. He’s in the right place, then. He pulls out his phone to text Vesemir so that he can show them to the farm they’ll be living on, but before he can press ‘send’, Geralt sees a lone, familiar figure striding down the road towards them. He pockets his phone and hoists his bag over his shoulder, heading to meet them halfway.

Geralt’s too old to run and jump into Vesemir’s arms like he used to as a boy, but he certainly isn’t too old for a hug. Vesemir pulls him into a fierce hug as soon as he’s close enough, which Geralt sinks into gladly.

“It’s good to see you, Wolf.” The nickname makes Geralt blush—it’s from his childhood, when he wanted to live in the woods, surviving off the land alone.

“Good to see you too, Vesemir.” He pulls back. “How’ve you been? How’re Eskel and Lambert?”

“We’re holding up, for the most part. Eskel’s ranch is doing the same as always, though he’s focusing more on goats now, God knows why. Lambert is…well, Lambert.”

Geralt grimaces. He knows how Lambert can get, when he doesn’t have something to focus his energy on. “What about that job he got, the one at the supermarket?”

Vesemir shakes his head. “It gets him out of bed, at least. Not much else to say about it.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to drop by, see if I can’t kick him into gear,” Geralt comments. “It’ll be good to see Eskel too, while I’m at it.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you get settled on the farm, and then you can all come ‘round for dinner tonight. Call it a family reunion.”

“Sounds good.”

“Right. Well, let me show you the farm,” Vesemir says, leading Geralt to the west. It’s maybe a twenty-minute walk, but the exercise is still more than he’s had in months, outside of physical therapy. By the time they reach the farm Geralt has worked up a sweat, which isn’t helped by the spring afternoon heat. He forgets all about the ache in his legs when he sees the farm, though.

It’s a sprawling lot, mostly untamed wilderness, wildly overgrown in places. Near the middle he can see a pond surrounded on all sides by tall grass, and off to the south there’s a large grove of trees. At the very end of the dirt road they’re on, there’s a house, although ‘cabin’ might be more appropriate.

It’s small but functional, Geralt finds, as they walk inside. Three rooms—a main room with a bathroom branching off, and a small kitchenette, all with hardwood floors. In the corner of the main room there’s a bed, dusty but cozy-looking, and a large fireplace opposite. An old box TV stands against the wall, with a small rug in front of it.

“It isn’t much, but it’ll do, I think. Renfri said she would expand it if she had the time, as soon as someone moved in. You can pay her a visit, if you like. She lives up on the mountain road,” Vesemir tells him.

“It’s fine as is, Vesemir. You know Roach and I don’t need much.”

“Still. It would do you good to meet her, anyway. Get out of the house, make a friend or two. The townspeople here are friendly; it would be easy enough.”

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt says, trying to pacify Vesemir. Truth be told, the thought of meeting new people makes his skin crawl, but he’s not going to mention it. That’s the fastest way to earn himself another visit to a therapist.

“Oh, and also,” Vesemir adds, “I had that old greenhouse fixed up, if you’d rather start planting in there first. I know this,” he gestures to the entire farm, “will be difficult to get going, at first.”

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt repeats. He’s had a long, tiring day, between the constant vigilance of the bus ride and the expectations Vesemir keeps placing on him. He just wants to take a brief nap, regain some energy so that he can get through dinner tonight. He loves his family, but _God_ they can be exhausting.

“Thanks, Geralt. See you tomorrow night.” Vesemir claps him on the shoulder one last time and leaves the farm, off to do his mayorly duties, Geralt supposes. It’s not a job he would have expected Vesemir to ever take, but after the previous mayor had died, Vesemir stepped up, and he’s done an admirable job in the years since.

Geralt dumps his bag next to the bed and kicks off his boots. It’s all he can gather the energy to do before he throws himself on the bed, on top of the blankets, even. He’s asleep within moments.

Roach wakes him some hours later with a couple of wet licks to the face. Well, at least he hasn’t overslept. “What time is it, girl?” he yawns, pulling out his phone to check. Nearly six o’clock, and he knows Vesemir’s house is at least half an hour away. He’d better get going.

On the bright side, his leg feels much better after the nap he took. He and Roach have a very pleasant walk through town, and to Geralt’s relief, they don’t come across any strangers on the way. He doesn’t feel up to meeting new people (and potential threats) right now.

They arrive at Vesemir’s house in the center of town just as the sun is dipping below the horizon. There are rowdy voices coming from inside, so Lambert and Eskel must already be here. He lets himself in, and is immediately greeted by someone body-slamming him into the ground. Roach barks. For a second, he panics, but then registers that it’s only Eskel, and relaxes, calling Roach off. Vesemir just sighs and moves out of the way.

Geralt wrestles with Eskel a bit—they’ve always been good matches for each other, but Geralt’s still shaking off the vestiges of sleep from his nap, and Eskel gains the upper hand, pinning him to the ground.

“Alright, alright, you win. Now let me up,” Geralt groans. Eskel does, holding out a hand to haul him to his feet, and then crushing him in a tight hug.

“Welcome home, Wolf,” Eskel says. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

“Away from your ugly mug,” cackles Lambert. “C’mon, let’s eat already. I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Vesemir serves his famous steak dinner, one of Geralt’s favorite meals from when he was a kid. The smell alone has Geralt’s mouth watering even before he digs in, and for a short while, all conversation stops as they enjoy their meal.

It’s Vesemir who finally breaks the silence. “Geralt, is your leg alright? You were favoring it during your little tussle.”

Geralt scowls. Yeah, maybe his leg is aching a little, but so what? It’s only to be expected after such an injury, and especially after exercising it as much he has lately. “Don’t worry about it,” he settles on.

Eskel frowns. “Of course we’re going to worry about you. It should be healed by now.”

“And it is. It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine to me,” adds Lambert, taking sides. Geralt glares at him. If the three of them are ganging up, he has no chance of winning this argument.

“You oughta visit Regis up at the clinic. He can take a look at it, make sure everything’s in order,” suggests Vesemir, but it really doesn’t sound like a suggestion, more like an order.

Geralt is sick to fucking death of doctors and appointments, endless questions about what exactly happened, and how, and what he’s done to fix it, and what he needs to do to fix it, on and on until he wishes the bullet had been aimed at his head instead.

“I’ve seen a thousand doctors, Vesemir, and it never makes a fucking difference.” He saws at his steak with his knife and fork as if he can cut straight through the plate and the table beneath it.

“I won’t make you go, but I think it would be good,” Vesemir says.

“Regis is a good man, Geralt. You would like him,” is all Eskel has to contribute. Geralt looks at Lambert.

He looks up, seeing that all three are now looking at him. “What? I ain’t got anything to say. Go, don’t go, I don’t give a shit. ‘S your leg.” He returns to attacking his steak like it’s personally wronged him.

There’s a rather tense silence for a few minutes, and then Geralt sighs. “I’ll think about it,” he allows, a peace offering to the people who only want what’s best for him.

“Thank you. That’s all I’m asking,” Vesemir replies. “Now, bear with me through some business talk. Truth is, while I did want you here so you could recover easier, I also had an ulterior motive. That old farm is in trouble, and so are a lot of other businesses. JojaMart's prices are rock bottom, and I think they’re trying to drive us out of business, until they’re the only one left. All of the charm and culture that makes our town so special will be gone.”

It’s tragic, really, but isn’t that just the way of things? Local businesses are struggling everywhere with the advent of online shopping; how is this any different? “But what does that have to do with me?” Geralt asks, putting down his fork and knife.

“I’m hoping you can get the farm going again. If there’s a healthy local alternative, people might support the community rather than JojaMart. Please, Geralt,” and suddenly Vesemir looks much older and wearier, “if this doesn’t work, I’m out of ideas for how to save Stardew Valley.”

Geralt would love to help, of course, but there’s one problem. “But I’m only supposed to be here for a month.”

“I bet you can do more than you know in a month. I’m only asking you to try, Geralt. Please.”

Geralt stares at him. “I can’t just stay here forever.”

“Why not?”

“I have an actual life I need to get back to.”

Lambert mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “what life?” Eskel elbows him. “What? It’s the truth,” he says sullenly. “All you ever cared about was that damn job and that dog of yours, and guess what? The job’s a no-go and the dog came with you, so what could you possibly have to get back to?”

Geralt is offended, of course, but more than that, he has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, a little niggling thought that says, he’s right. Life as you knew it is over. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks lowly, leaning back and crossing his arms. Roach senses his rising anxiety and lays her head on his knee. The warm weight is a comfort.

“He’s just concerned about you. We all are,” says Eskel, always trying to diffuse the situation. Geralt doesn’t want the situation to be diffused, though. His blood is pumping hot under his skin, ready for a fight. If Lambert has a problem with him, he needs to spit it out.

“I’m just saying! All you were doing in that apartment is moping around feeling sorry for yourself. You need to lighten the fuck up and move on.”

“Lambert,” Vesemir warns.

“No, I’m sick of everyone pussyfooting around it. Get your shit together, Geralt. Stop being a stubborn ass and let us help you.”

Geralt pushes back from the table, letting his chair fall to the floor. If he doesn’t get out of here right now, he’s going to do or say something he’ll regret, he knows. He stalks to the door and flings it open, heedless of the three men trying to get him to stay, and stomps out into the chill of night. Roach is hot on his heels.

His mind is racing the entire way back to the farm. He can’t get Lambert’s words out of his head.

The worst part about it all is that he’s right. Geralt felt like he was going mad, confined to that empty apartment while his leg healed, and then afterwards, when he felt like he couldn’t leave—the doctors called it post-traumatic stress, his friends called it avoidance, and he called it pathetic.

_He’s standing by the door, keys in one hand, Roach’s leash in the other._ Open the damn door _, he thinks to himself._ Just take two steps, open the door, and walk outside _. But try as he might, he can’t make himself reach out and grab the doorknob. Roach looks up at him and whines. “I’m sorry, girl. I can’t. I can’t do it,” he whispers, eyes closing in defeat. “Tomorrow, Roach. I can go outside tomorrow.”_

Geralt shakes his head, unclenches his hands from the fists they’ve formed, coming back to the present. He arrived at the farm while he was lost in thought, and he’s been staring at the door for God knows how long now. Roach whines, pawing at the door.

“Sorry, girl,” he mutters, opening the door and entering the cabin. As he steps over the threshold, it’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders that he didn’t even know was there. He feels so much more secure with four sturdy walls around him, that’s all.

He takes a deep breath, shuddering as he lets it go slowly. Roach whines again, nudging him towards the bed. He lets her, and as soon as he sits down, she leaps onto his lap, leaning on his chest until he lies down. She lays her entire weight on top of him as soon as he’s horizontal, but rather than being constricting, it’s comforting, being under her furry bulk.

As he lies there, tension slowly bleeding out of him, his heartrate calms, breaths coming easier. Roach senses it, and once she’s sure he’ll be okay, hops off, but still stays close by, curling up next to him. “Thanks,” he murmurs, running a hand through her fur.

Fuck. It wasn’t a panic attack, but only barely. “Roach, meds,” he orders, knowing that she’ll know what to do. Sure enough, she hops off the bed and noses in his open bag, retrieving his anti-anxiety pills. She drops them in his waiting palm and he swallows one, dry.

That done, he tugs off his boots, but can’t summon the energy to get undressed. He collapses back onto the bed, though he actually climbs under the covers this time. He’s utterly drained, and is definitely looking forward to slipping into unconsciousness.

Despite how tired he is, though, he still feels too keyed up to sleep. Thoughts of the accident race just under the surface; he can usually ignore them when he’s concentrating on something else, but tonight, with Lambert having dragged all of his insecurities into the daylight, he’s feeling raw and vulnerable, an exposed nerve.

He tosses and turns so much that even Roach hops off the bed and curls up on the floor. After hours, he finally falls into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun comes early the next morning, and with it come thoughts of shame and guilt, and an overwhelming need to go apologize to Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir.

His muscles are tight and his bones ache, but he forces himself out of bed anyways. Eskel’s ranch is just south of the farm, and with his leg as stiff as it is, it’s about a twenty-five minute walk.

A little bell over the door jingles as he and Roach enter the store- _cum_ -house, a recent addition, apparently. It summons Eskel from the back, and his face lights up at the sight of Geralt standing there sheepishly.

“Geralt. Come to buy a goat?” he teases.

“Wanted to apologize for running out like that last night.”

“Aw, it’s okay. Lambert shouldn’t have pushed like that.”

“But he was right—I’ve been acting like such a fuck-up lately. What kind of person am I, if I can’t even leave the house?”

“It’s a normal trauma response. You don’t have to apologize for it.” It sounds exactly like the phrases the doctors spouted, although it doesn’t sound as hollow when it’s Eskel.

“Still have to get my shit together, though,” Geralt replies bitterly.

“Yeah, and that’s gonna take work. Start small,” Eskel advises.

“Hmm. Where’s Lambert? Wanna talk to him too.”

Eskel jerks a thumb behind him. “Probably still passed out, even though his shift is in, like, thirty minutes. Wake him up for me, would you? Last time, he threw a beer bottle at my head.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and heads to the back, peeking in rooms until he finds Lambert’s. Sure enough, he’s sprawled out face-down on his bed, dead to the world. Geralt picks his way through the trash scattered everywhere—empty bottles, mostly, but also frozen pizza boxes, energy bar wrappers, and the occasional dirty sock.

“Lambert,” he calls, staying a healthy distance away, lest any bottles come flying. “Get your lazy ass out of bed.”

Lambert grumbles and turns over. Geralt sighs.

“No wonder you can’t keep a fucking job,” he mutters, and yanks on Lambert’s ankle hard enough that he falls out of bed in a heap on the floor.

“What the fuck?” yells Lambert, as he wakes up. He notices that he’s on the floor, and, seeing Geralt standing over him, groans. “You asshole. Couldn’t have woken me like a normal person?”

“I tried,” Geralt says blithely. “Now get up, Eskel says you have work.”

“Should just quit,” he grouses, pushing himself to his feet. “Not like they even like me.”

“You can’t quit, asshole. You need a job.”

“Oh yeah, like you?” As soon as he says it, an expression like regret crosses his face. He doesn’t apologize, but then, Geralt likely wouldn’t accept it anyway. “Fine, you win.”

Geralt leans against the doorway while Lambert gathers what he needs for work—uniform, ID card, work boots. He turns around while Lambert changes, even though it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, and it’s easier this way, to force his apology out of his tight throat.

“I wanted to say sorry for last night. I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

Lambert grunts. “I don’t need an apology. I just—” he pauses, sighs. “We’re just worried about you, man.”

Geralt fights down the instinctive defensive reaction he has to that. It won’t do anybody any good to get riled up right now, and besides, he knows that they are actually trying to help. It’s not their fault he can’t be a normal human being.

“But listen. If you really want to make it up to me, you can visit Regis in the clinic, let him take a look at your leg,” Lambert says, trying and failing for casual.

Geralt’s shoulders hunch. “I already told you, I don’t want—”

“Yeah, you don’t want any more doctors poking and prodding at you, I know. Regis is different, I promise. He won’t do anything you don’t want, and he’s really good at keeping shit private, too.”

Well that’s something, at least, though Geralt still feels reluctant. “Maybe,” he reiterates, and thankfully, Lambert drops it. He leaves shortly after, on the cusp of being late, and Geralt ambles back down to the front of the store, where Eskel is taking stock.

“Need help with anything?” Geralt asks, leaning on a nearby shelf. He’s reluctant to leave so soon.

“Yeah, actually. Help me muck out the stables? Afterwards I can close up early, and then we can start to tackle some of that overgrown mess on your lot.”

It makes for a very dirty morning, but the light exercise gets his blood pumping in a pleasant way. Roach enjoys herself, rolling around in the freshly-lain hay. And the easy camaraderie he falls into with Eskel, the teasing banter, grounds him to the present. He feels content and relaxed by the time lunch rolls around.

They eat a quick lunch and then head north back to the farm, Eskel grabbing an axe and a pair of gardening shears from his barn on the way.

They start with the least-overgrown part of the farm, near the cabin. Eskel tackles some bushes, while Geralt takes the axe and starts cutting down some trees (which are growing so densely, he might as well call it a forest.)

It’s tiring work, especially in the stunning heat of the afternoon with the sun so high in the sky. Eskel eventually taps out, but leaves the tools for Geralt if he wants to continue. He does; despite the exertion, it’s satisfying seeing the farm slowly being cleared out. He is overheating, though, and yanks off his shirt to mop at his sweaty brow, resting the axe on the ground and leaning his weight against it.

Now that he’s not chopping away at the wood anymore, he hears a strange sound coming from behind the bushes, close to where the road into town is. It’s leaves rustling, accompanied by… giggles?

Geralt lets the axe fall and stalks over to the bushes. “Who’s there?” he growls, and if he sounds menacing, well, hopefully that’ll teach whoever it is to stay the hell off his property when he’s felling trees.

He hears whispering, and as he reaches for the branches to yank them back and reveal who’s hiding there, two bodies come tumbling out. Roach, seeing the intruders, places herself defensively in front of Geralt.

Two children stand in front of him—a girl with long ashen hair, and a boy with curly dark hair. They look to be no more than twelve, perhaps, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Sorry, sir!” the girl pipes up. “We just wanted to meet you!”

“It’s been ages since we’ve had anyone new to talk to,” the boy laments. “We didn’t mean to trespass, honest.” Then, turning to the girl, he hisses, “Told you we shouldn’t have hidden.”

Geralt crosses his arms, looking down at them both. “No, you shouldn’t have. What if a tree had fallen on you, because I didn’t know you were there?”

“We’re really sorry,” the girl says, biting her lip.

Geralt sighs. “Just don’t do it again.”

At that moment, he hears footsteps coming down the road toward him—quickly, as if the visitor is running. Sure enough, a few seconds later a young man rounds the bend, hair askew and hoodie flying behind him from where it’s tied around his waist. “Ciri! Dara!” he shouts. “I’ve _told_ you not to run ahead without me!”

He skids to a stop as soon as he sees the three of them, eyes landing on Geralt and mouthing something that looks like _good god_ , and then jogs the rest of the way over. “I am _so_ sorry sir, clearly I need to have a talk with these two about privacy—what were you thinking?” He rounds on the children—Ciri and Dara, presumably. “I’ve told you about stranger danger before, yes? Not that I think you’re—” he turns to Geralt “—I don’t know, some kind of child molester—it’s just, I’m trying to teach them good habits— _fuck, I’m making this awkward—”_

“It’s fine,” Geralt interrupts, because it doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop rambling anytime soon. “They weren’t bothering me, either. I just don’t want them to get hurt.”

“Thank goodness. And now, Ciri, Dara, what do you say to the very nice man whose property you’ve just intruded on?”

“Sorry,” they chorus. Geralt nods once.

“Now, introductions. I’m Jaskier, and I tutor these two rascals. This is Ciri, and this is Dara,” Jaskier says, pointing to each in turn.

“Geralt,” Geralt says, offering a hand. Despite being frankly ambushed by the three of them, he doesn’t feel any of the characteristic fear that normally comes with new interactions. _Well, it’s not as if two children and a just-barely-not-a-teenager are very threatening,_ he thinks. They’re nothing like the hulking, cruel men who had—

Roach licks his hand, forcing his mind back to the present before he can get lost in a flashback. “You’ve just moved here, then?” Jaskier is asking, gaze focused firmly on Geralt’s face. He has stunning blue eyes, nearly a light gray, Geralt notices.

“No. Just visiting,” he answers, though he’s not sure how true it is anymore. “The mayor needed help getting the farm up and running.”

“Oh, excellent! Honestly, it’s about time someone did something with this old plot of land. It can definitely be put to better use than as a playground for these two.” Jaskier jerks a thumb towards the kids. “Speaking of, it’s about time we were off. You’ve both got homework.”

Ciri and Dara groan. “But we want to stay and get to know Mr. Geralt!” Dara exclaims.

“Just Geralt is fine,” Geralt interjects.

“No, I’m sure we’ve bothered him enough. Come on.” Jaskier tries to shoo them forward. “Maybe if we ask very nicely, and with _advance warning_ next time, Mr. Geralt will let us come over and chat again.”

Geralt would…not hate that. It’s something novel, what he feels meeting these three, and not feeling that familiar panic rising up inside.

“Nice to meet you,” Jaskier calls over his shoulder, still herding Ciri and Dara away.

“Bye!” they shout, waving enthusiastically. Geralt, feeling foolish, waves back. And then they’ve disappeared from sight around the bend in the road.

Geralt decides he’s done for the day and cleans himself up, noticing afterwards that he was embarrassingly shirtless throughout that entire conversation. He climbs in bed with his mind already whirling with ways he can ask them over again.

_Maybe this is what healing feels like,_ he muses, just before sleep claims him.

\--

It takes him nearly two weeks to build up the courage to invite them over. In that time, he manages to clear most of the trees around the lot, and makes a solid dent in the overgrown bushes. There’s enough room, now, to begin planting, though buying seeds from Chireadan’s store has become a trial all of its own. He hasn’t managed to do it yet, but he promises himself (and Vesemir, during Sunday dinner) that he will soon.

Regardless of his progress planting, though, the farm is certainly looking better. The main thing he needs to do now is tackle the weeds that keep sprouting up everywhere, and then mix fertilizer into the tilled soil.

It’s under that pretense that he finds himself inviting Ciri and Dara over; in exchange for their help weeding, he’ll provide them with food and cold drinks, as well as an allowance. Jaskier is invited, as well, but needn’t help weed if he doesn’t want.

They come over the next afternoon, after their learning for the day is done. The kids are wearing appropriate clothes for digging around in the dirt, while Jaskier is decidedly not, in his brightly colored Converse and skinny jeans.

“Hi, Mr. Geralt!” the kids scream as soon as they see him. Geralt allows himself a small smile. Jaskier follows them at a more sedate pace, though he looks no less excited to see Geralt.

“Thanks for having us back! And really, I can’t tell you what a great opportunity this is for the kids. I try to give them a well-rounded education, but I don’t know much about nature,” he admits. “But this will be good for them, I think. Kids need to roll around in the dirt every now and then.”

Geralt looks over to where Dara and Ciri have already started attacking the weeds, and _attacking_ is a very literal and accurate term for what they’re doing. Dara, somehow, has already found the three-pronged cultivator Geralt left out, and is hacking at the ground as if it’s personally wronged him. Ciri has surpassed tools entirely and is instead ripping at the weeds—some of them taller than her—with her bare hands. Geralt winces.

“Ciri, darling, why don’t we try some gloves? And Dara, did you ask to borrow that?” Jaskier calls. The kids look up guiltily. “Don’t know why I even try, sometimes,” he says playfully to Geralt, shaking his head. He and Geralt get the kids situated with the proper tools they need, and then Geralt goes back to chopping wood from the felled trees. It’ll make good firewood—maybe he can sell it.

While Geralt works, Jaskier, perched on the fence nearby with a glass of lemonade, strikes up a conversation. “So, a little bird told me you come from the city?” Geralt doesn’t answer, but Jaskier continues regardless. “Me too, actually. I much prefer the valley, though. You wouldn’t believe how great it is for artistic inspiration.”

“You’re an artist?” Geralt asks.

“Yep! Of all kinds, actually. You name it, I’ve tried it. Most of the time I prefer songwriting, though.”

Hmm. A singer. Geralt supposes he isn’t surprised, considering how musical Jaskier’s voice sounds. Then, _what the fuck?_ he thinks. Where did that thought come from?

“What about you? Are you a purveyor of the fine arts?” Jaskier’s voice interrupts.

“Hmm. Never really been one for music.” And it’s true. He doesn’t hate it or anything—he’s just never really found any songs he vibed with.

“Not one for music?!” Jaskier shrieks, loud and shrill enough that a flock of birds takes off out of a nearby tree. Geralt flinches. “Sorry,” Jaskier says at a more normal volume, “but what in the seven hells is wrong with you? How can you not like music?”

“I don’t _dislike_ it. I just never cared much for it,” Geralt says, shrugging.

“Well, that’s an affront to humanity. It is now my sole purpose in life to find at least _one_ song you like,” Jaskier announces, hopping down from the fence. Geralt shrugs again.

Jaskier spends the rest of the afternoon quizzing him on what genres of music he’s tried before, as if they’re fancy food dishes or something. Some of them Geralt hasn’t even heard of.

“Right,” Jaskier says decisively, nodding sharply. “Well, that’s a start, I guess. Would you mind if I brought my guitar next time?”

_Next time?_ “Uh, sure,” Geralt says, still caught up over the ease with which Jaskier assumed there would be a next time.

“Excellent! Don’t worry, you won’t regret it. I’ll find something that you like yet.” He winks. Geralt, flustered, watches as he collects Ciri and Dara from where they’ve wandered in search of weeds over the course of the afternoon.

When they leave, it feels like something is missing from the too-big farm.

\--

Geralt finds himself looking forward to the next day they come over. Unfortunately, between their schooling and other activities, Ciri and Dara are only available two days a week, which means he doesn’t have an excuse to invite Jaskier over, either. So Geralt waits, and he works, and tries not to feel like he's getting too attached.

All thoughts of attachment fly out of his head upon seeing Jaskier again when the three of them come over on Thursday. Ciri and Dara fly off to go mutilate some weeds, while Jaskier heads towards Geralt. He has his promised guitar slung over his shoulder, and is wearing ridiculously short shorts, accompanied by a pair of short work boots. There’s _entirely_ too much leg happening there.

“Geralt! I come bearing gifts,” he greets, and when Geralt looks again—gaze steadily avoiding the broad expanse of skin—he sees that Jaskier is also carrying a small box.

“You don’t have to,” Geralt protests, though he’s curious about what it could possibly be.

“Nonsense. Think of it as a housewarming gift, if you’d like.” He opens the box to reveal an iPod—an older model, but in good condition—and a pair of headphones. “This is my old iPod, so there’s a lot of my old music already on there. Of course you can delete some songs if you’d like, I just thought this might be a good place to start, since there’s all sorts of genres on here.”

Geralt doesn’t even know what to say. It’s a very personal gift, and very thoughtful, obviously. He just doesn’t know if he can accept. “Jaskier, I don’t even—”

“Right, what was I thinking, of course you don’t want this old thing, you don’t even like music—”

Geralt interrupts before he can get the wrong idea. “No, it isn’t that. This is a nice gift, truly, but—”

“Great! It’s yours then.” He thrusts the box into Geralt’s hands, so that Geralt has no choice but to take it or else let it drop. “Now, what are we working on today? I’ll save the guitar playing for later—I’m ready to get my hands dirty. I even wore my special boots for you, see?” Jaskier holds his booted foot up as if to demonstrate. The boots look brand-new, like their owner has never worked a day in their life.

Geralt has doubts about Jaskier’s willingness and ability to work the land, but puts him to work mixing fertilizer into the soil that Geralt tills. He expects Jaskier to give up within a few minutes, complaining viciously about the smell and the labor.

Jaskier, however, surprises him; while he does indeed comment on the horrid smell, he mostly jokes around, seeming far too cheerful for the situation.

“And then she had the _audacity_ to say I was the one who started it!” Jaskier finishes, throwing his hands out to the side. Geralt dodges a bit of soil that comes flying his way. “Oops, sorry.”

“Hmm. What happened then?” Geralt asks, entertained despite himself.

“Oh, I ran off into the night, never to be seen again, of course. I couldn’t have my good name sullied—more than it already had been, I mean.” He laughs.

“Did that happen often, then?”

“More than I would care to admit,” Jaskier confesses. “You know how the college years can be.”

“I don’t, actually,” Geralt comments offhandedly. Jaskier’s quiet for a moment.

“Oh? Directly into a trade, then? Or the military?” he asks. It’s a completely innocent question, but it skirts too close for comfort.

“Military,” Geralt grunts, leaving it at that. _The burning eye of the sun staring down at him, boots stamping over the dry ground, shouting words he can’t hear over the pain in his leg…_

Jaskier doesn’t pry any further, thankfully. He instead rambles about his own college days, how he discovered he wanted to be an artist. “I went to Oxenfurt—business major originally, if you can believe it—but I took an elective and it was love at first note.”

Oxenfurt, wow. A _very_ prestigious college. If Jaskier graduated from there, it’s a surprise that he isn’t performing in concert halls worldwide. Now Geralt’s curious to see if his voice really lives up to the title of Oxenfurt graduate.

He gets the chance a few hours later; they finish with the soil, and Jaskier washes up while Geralt goes to check on Ciri and Dara. They’re fine, having plenty of fun annihilating every unwanted plant in sight. Geralt offers them more lemonade and then heads back to where Jaskier is sitting on the small porch, tuning his guitar.

He looks up when he sees Geralt. “Right, any requests?” he asks, laughing somewhat nervously.

“No. Whatever you like best.” Geralt settles in to sit on the steps next to Jaskier, Roach plopping her head down on his lap and wagging her tail.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and then he launches into the most beautifully complex song Geralt has ever heard. His fingers fly across the strings, plucking with finesse, and he starts to sing, though Geralt is so enchanted he doesn’t even hear the words. He sits there, mesmerized, all thoughts forgotten in the wake of this captivating performance.

Geralt swears he doesn’t even breathe until the song is over, and it’s like a spell has been lifted.

The last vibrations fade, leaving only the sound of crickets chirping in the evening air. “Well?” Jaskier asks. “Not completely terrible? Didn’t absolutely hate it? You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

It takes Geralt a few seconds to remember how to form words. “Uhh…I didn’t hate it?” he offers, and then inwardly winces. That’s the understatement of the century—Jaskier’s playing completely removed him from the world, made him lose himself in the melodies and countermelodies.

“I’ll take it,” Jaskier says, smiling. “I’ll just have to try every song I know until I land on something you ‘don’t hate’ even more.”

Geralt doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. “Sounds like a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said Monday or Tuesday, and hey, it's technically Monday where I am. also I have no self control lol


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, a day late, sorry. I think the posting schedule will be Monday and Friday from here on out, although I just started classes again so no promises. this chapter is also kind of short, but the one on Monday will be super long to make up for it!

The next week brings rain, and thunder, and more rain. Jaskier, whom Geralt had given his number to in case of emergencies with the kids, calls him on the fourth straight day of the downpour. “You still have power, right? And water? I hate to think of you all alone on that farm.”

“I’m fine, Jaskier. What about you? Is your cabin still standing?”

“Oh, barely. I worry that at any moment a tornado will come along and sweep me away like the Wizard of Oz.”

“If you need a place to stay—”

“No, I’m just being dramatic. I’ll be alright. What I’m really worried about is your crops drowning. How are they doing?”

Oh yeah. Geralt winces. Crops. Planting. Something he meant to get around to, but hasn’t yet, because planting requires seeds, which requires going to the store, which requires human interaction. “I, uh, they’re fine. Well, not fine. I…haven’t actually planted yet.”

“What? But Geralt! Are you telling me we did all that work on the farm for nothing?” Geralt, if possible, winces even harder. Jaskier softens his voice. “I’m sorry, that was rude. But seriously, Geralt. Why haven’t you planted anything yet?”

Well, now he’s embarrassed to say. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Never got around to it.”

“Hmph. Well, if you need seeds, Chireadan has a good selection at his shop. You could pick some up there—or we could both go when I do my grocery shopping for the week.”

The prospect of Jaskier being there makes the entire ordeal more appealing, for some reason. Jaskier knows about his issues with being out and about in public, and his already-familiar presence might be calming in the face of any mishaps.

“Alright,” he agrees, warily.

So Jaskier makes it a point to show up bright and early the next day that he doesn’t have to tutor Ciri and Dara, and together they visit Chireadan’s shop.

Honestly, Geralt doesn’t even remember the entire encounter—he vaguely recalls thinking that Chireadan was nice, if a bit awkward. His wide blue eyes seem to stare right through Geralt, who makes a fist with the hand buried in Roach’s thick fur.

But they get the seeds, with Geralt spending more than he would’ve liked; he couldn’t resist Jaskier’s puppy dog eyes when he pleaded _oh, please can we plant strawberries? I know they’re a bit expensive, but think of how good they’ll taste!_ So overall a success, especially for how happy it made Jaskier.

Geralt muses on that the next few days—how it makes his stomach flutter when he thinks of Jaskier's smile, makes him weak in the knees when he remembers the joy in Jaskier’s eyes, crinkled at the corners.

He indulges in this new feeling, wondering at the happiness Jaskier brings everywhere he goes. It’s almost inhuman, the way he can remain so positive all the time. Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jaskier _not_ smiling.

As spring inches closer to summer and the crops begin to sprout, Jaskier starts spending every available moment at the farm. Geralt doesn’t mind; many hands make light work, after all, and if Geralt loses track of time while talking to Jaskier, well, that just makes the job that much easier. How can one person have this much energy?

Spring harvest rolls around after almost a month, just when Geralt planned to leave originally. It creeps up on him—then, dithering over whether to buy a last-minute bus ticket, he decides against it, reasoning that he has to at least see the harvest out. He owes Vesemir that much, at least.

So he and Jaskier pull up bunches of strawberries, mounds of potatoes, countless heads of cauliflower, and then sell it to Chireadan for redistribution. Geralt makes his money back and then some.

The day after, a knock on the door wakes him. Roach jumps off the bed and stands in front of it, looking at Geralt to gauge his reaction. He opens the door to see a red-haired woman standing on his porch. “Hi there!” she greets him. “You’re the new farmer, Geralt, right?”

“Yes,” he says warily, unsure why a complete stranger would have shown up at his door. His fingers itch for the security of a weapon of some kind, but he forces the feeling down in favor of curling his fingers around Roach’s collar.

“Nice to finally meet you! I’m Triss. Anyway, I wanted to drop by and thank you for what you’re doing for our community! Vesemir told me how proud he is that you’ve decided to step in and fix up this old farm. And your strawberries, gosh! They were just _so_ delicious. In fact—” she pauses and reaches into her bag, “—I made this strawberry jam out of them, and thought you might like to try it. As a thank you.”

Geralt takes it, frowning.

“Hope you enjoy! If you ever want to talk, I work at the clinic next to Chireadan’s.” She turns around and makes to leave, then stops herself “Oh! That reminds me—he said to tell you that he has summer seeds in stock now. Anyway, see you around, Geralt.” And he’s left standing in the doorway with a jar of jam, still groggy from sleep.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, placing the jam on the counter for later, and heading back to bed. Now that he doesn’t have to be up at the crack of dawn to water plants, sleep is calling his name.

He sleeps until nearly noon and wakes up to a text from Vesemir, inviting him over to lunch. He groans but gets up, shooting a quick text to Jaskier to let him know not to come over until later.

> _ok cant stay long tho. playing at the ss tonight_
> 
> _SS?_ Geralt replies.
> 
> _stardrop saloon. u should come! :D_

It’s…sweet of him to offer, but Geralt shudders at the thought of facing an entire crowd of people in a confined space.

> _Another time, maybe. Sorry._

Then he pockets his phone, not wanting to face Jaskier’s inevitable disappointment, and goes to get ready for the day.

Lunch is a quiet affair, only him and Vesemir. They make small talk about how the farm is going, how the town has seen a boost in its economy lately, how happy everyone is for some local fresh food.

“Speaking of,” Vesemir says, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich, “when are you going to get your next round of crops started? I hear Chireadan is selling summer seeds now.”

“Vesemir, I’m not staying,” Geralt says, staring at Vesemir in confusion. Surely he knew Geralt never planned on staying?

“What?”

“I was only supposed to stay for a month. Now that the harvest is over…”

Vesemir sighs. “That’ll be the end of it, then.”

“Is it really that much of an issue? The land has sat empty for years, way before I showed up.”

“No, it isn’t that. I got a letter from JojaMart yesterday. They're raising rent on the farm, and I just don’t have the funds to pay it. They’re going to kick me off if I can’t pay and build a warehouse instead.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Geralt asks, though it hurts something deep inside him to imagine the land bulldozed over and covered in concrete.

“It’s only the first step to JojaMart completely taking over. Please, Geralt. Stay through the summer. I’m out of options if you don’t.”

Truthfully, Geralt can’t think of any good reason to object, not when so much is obviously on the line. He sighs. “Fine. Through the summer, but only because I haven’t bought a bus ticket yet.” 

Vesemir smiles knowingly, and Geralt can’t help but feel warmth in his chest when he sees it.

\--

Jaskier has to go with him to buy seeds again. This time, Geralt spends the surplus he’d made in the spring, plus a bit of his own money, plus a small stipend Vesemir gave him. All told, it’s enough to buy seeds of every variety—though Jaskier is most excited about the small apple sapling he buys. It’s supposed to be quick-growing, though it still won’t bear fruit for another season, at least.

“Think of all the things we can do with the apples, Geralt! Pies, juices, applesauce…”

The kids are also done with their tutoring for the year, and Jaskier gives them the summer off. To Geralt’s surprise, they use their newfound freedom to spend even more time at the farm. Geralt suspects it’s only a little bit because of the allowance he gives them for their volunteering.

Between the four of them, all the seeds get planted and start sprouting quickly. It’s a lot of work, still—the watering alone takes up hours every day, not to mention the weeding and the pruning.

A week in, Geralt begins to think that perhaps he’s bitten off more than he can chew. The long hours are getting to him—every morning when he wakes up, his leg aches a bit more. He ignores it—Vesemir’s concern over losing the farm is much more pressing.

One day, Jaskier must notice something bothering him, because he’s much more forceful in his demands that they stop and take breaks often. A part of Geralt appreciates the chance to rest, but another, more anxious part of him worries at how much time they’re losing, time that could be spent mixing more fertilizer, or culling weeds, or even buying and planting more seeds. It’s like a frenzy has taken hold of him.

It’s sometime in June, during the hottest part of the month, when things go downhill. Ciri and Dara have taken the day off to go swim in the lake in a desperate attempt to cool off, but Jaskier and Geralt are still hard at work on the farm.

“Come on, Geralt! It’s so hot out and you're dressed entirely in black. Surely you need to sit down and drink something,” Jaskier cajoles. It’s about the fifth time he's tried to get Geralt to take a break. Roach seems to agree, judging by the way she keeps nudging him towards shade. He shakes her off.

“I’m _fine,_ Jaskier,” he growls, shoving his trowel in the ground a bit more forcefully than he means to. “If you’re not going to help, why don’t you get out of my way.”

Jaskier stammers for a moment, completely lost for words. All right, maybe that was a bit harsh, but really, he needs to learn when to _leave off._ “You— _you_ need a _nap_!” he finally says, pointing accusingly.

Geralt ignores him, and they fall into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of dirt as Geralt continues to dig.

Geralt knows from experience that Jaskier can’t handle quiet for very long, so he’s not surprised to hear Jaskier start humming. Normally he wouldn’t be bothered by something so innocuous, but it’s only making his headache worse, a pounding in his head escalating until he can’t take it anymore. “Damn it, Jaskier! I just want some damn peace!” he shouts, throwing the trowel down and rounding on Jaskier.

He falls silent immediately, looking at Geralt with a wounded expression. “Right, then. I know when I’m not wanted,” he says quietly, getting up and dusting off his knees. “See you around, Geralt.”

He leaves, and Geralt finally has his damn peace, headache and all.

That night, lying in bed, Geralt can’t stop thinking about the expression on Jaskier’s face. He didn’t deserve to be yelled at like that—Geralt knows that he’s acting out like a spoiled child, but can’t even begin to think of a way to apologize. Jaskier deserves better than him, better than a broken, stressed shell of a person.

If Jaskier shows up tomorrow, Geralt will apologize, will beg for him to forget the harsh words he’s thrown in the face of one who’s helped him so much.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who thought today was monday!! this writer!! the holiday here totally screwed with me. but hey, if it makes up for it, I did just post my [witcher big bang fic!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352211) go check it out if you like cursed!jaskier and protective!geralt :D 
> 
> warning for this chapter: Geralt has a flashback, in which some homophobic slurs are used, and he gets injured. skip the big part in italics if you don't want to read it.

Jaskier doesn’t show up tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. Geralt sends him a text, a simple  _ Sorry,  _ but receives no response. He caves and calls Jaskier on the third day, but it doesn’t even ring before sending him to voicemail. Geralt has been truly cut off.

Ciri and Dara finally come to the farm the day after, energetic as ever, but strangely quiet. Geralt feels even more horrible.

“Listen, you can—you can talk. I don’t mind,” he tells them, but they just look at him sadly and with a small amount of fear. Geralt wants to crawl in a hole and  _ die. _

It’s awkward, but he tries to make conversation with them, asking about their studies, their latest adventures, anything to get them chatting again. They slowly become more receptive to it, until it’s almost like normal, minus Jaskier being there to bring them all together.

It takes a couple days, but Geralt finally manages to work up the courage to ask them about Jaskier, whether they’ve seen him lately.

“He’s really sad,” Ciri says, almost defiantly. Her shoulders are set, and though she’s not quite glaring at him, it’s a near thing. “He won’t even talk to us about music, which he loves to do.”

_ Shit.  _ Music is practically Jaskier’s life. Did Geralt really hurt him so badly, to make him retreat so far into himself? “Can you tell him something for me?” he asks—no, pleads. “Can you—can you tell him I’m sorry, and that I would really like the chance to apologize in person?”

“I’ll try,” she says, “but don’t expect anything.”

Geralt doesn’t, which is why he’s entirely surprised when Jaskier shows up at the farm the next afternoon. He’s taking an axe to some firewood in an attempt to work out his anger and self-hatred, pushing himself to his limits, punishing himself. He knows it isn’t healthy, but it’s either this or fall into a depressive spiral.

_ Thock. Thock. Thock.  _ Swinging the axe down becomes meditative, something to focus on that isn’t his black mood.  _ Thock.  _ He’s so into it that he ignores the protests of his body, the way sweat drips down his brow, the way his arms burn with exertion, the way his leg has started trembling with exertion.  _ Thock.  _ He notices it, but discards it, everything falling away until only the axe and the wood are left.

_ Thock. Thock—“Geralt?”  _ The voice comes out of nowhere, startling him. He twists, axe mid-swing, and has to contort his leg to avoid hitting Jaskier, who’s standing in front of Geralt, looking concerned.

He moves too quickly, leg wrenching just so, and the agony is suddenly overwhelming. He can’t breathe—it’s too hot,  _ the sun beating down on him, boots stomping on the ground, his leg in agony— _

And it’s like he’s back at basic training.

_ Two men are standing over a third, identical cruel smirks on their faces. Chad and Alex, picking on David again. “Fucking fag. Bet you’d like us to show you a good time,” Chad jeers. _

_ “Look at ‘im. Weak little body like that, no way he’s good for anything else.” Geralt hears the taunts from across the yard, a near-regular occurrence. He tries to step in where he can, fight the assholes off, but they always come back for more. Geralt balls his hands into fists and stalks over. _

_ “Hey, leave off!” he shouts, pushing Chad hard in the chest, forcing himself between them and their victim. “Get out of here,” he growls to David—he’s no more than a kid, really, looks barely eighteen. He scampers away, and the assholes round on Geralt now that their original target is gone. _

_ “Stay out of our fucking business!” Chad shouts, aiming a fist at Geralt’s face. He dodges easily, shoving him away, but he’s lost the other one in the rush, until Geralt hears the too-familiar click of a safety being disengaged. He freezes. _

_ “Yeah, thought so,” Alex snickers. “I think we need to teach you a lesson on sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Where did he get a gun? From somewhere on base, probably, though whoever allowed that to happen will have hell to pay. _

_ Geralt has to de-escalate this immediately. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think talking it through is going to do it. He pivots, bringing his arm up to knock the gun from Alex’s grip. _

_ He’s miscalculated. The gun is higher than he thought, and he only succeeds in knocking it lower. Alex’s finger slips—he pulls the trigger— _

_ And suddenly his leg is on fire. The bullet rips through him, hitting muscle, bone, vein. His back hits the hard-packed earth; Alex curses, runs away. Boots hitting the hard ground. The sun directly overhead, its burning glare too much. There’s shouting, but he can’t make out any words. He can’t make out much at all, actually, even the burning agony in his leg fading. Then he’s fading, and then he’s gone. _

“—ralt? Geralt! Fuck—Dara, go get Regis, hurry. Ciri—no, stay back! He might hurt you. Go get me—get a glass of water. And, and my guitar.” Geralt hears it as if through a thick pane of glass—his mind is still ravaging him, his leg is still on fire, but pieces of reality start to trickle in.

He’s lying on the ground, digging his fingernails into the earth, though it’s not the soil he was expecting, but rather a patch of soft grass. His head is propped on something soft—something that moves rhythmically beneath him. He feels fur against the back of his neck.

He opens his eyes, squinting against the brightness, but rather than the sun— _ burning overhead— _ he sees a canopy of leaves. There’s the sound of running footsteps nearby—but it isn’t boots on hard-packed earth, it’s the light tread of Ciri’s sneakers.

“Geralt? Love, can you hear me? You’ve opened your eyes, is that—is that good?” The voice is familiar, comforting.

“Jaskier?” he guesses, voice rasping.

“Yes! Yes, I’m here. Just—just relax, Dara’s gone to get Regis. It’s going to be okay.”

“No. No doctors.” Geralt tries to sit up, but the pain in his leg stops him. He grunts and his head falls back to rest on Roach.

“Seeing as you’ve just collapsed in pain in front of me and can’t get up again, I’m going to have to insist on this one, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is tense—Geralt hates that he’s worrying him, especially after everything. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s worry.

He’s distracted by the sound of Ciri running back towards them, though she stops at a safe distance.  _ He might hurt you  _ echoes in his head—what if he had? What if poor Ciri got caught up in his flashback, and he unknowingly lashed out? He doesn’t even want to think about it, but it’s suddenly all he can think about.

Jaskier leaves his side for a moment and returns holding a glass of water. “Here. Do you want something to drink? Will it help?” Jaskier asks.

He shakes his head. Jaskier retreats again, and Geralt lies there and tries to breathe through the pain that pulses with each beat of his heart, until he hears two more sets of footsteps approaching.

“What’s wrong?” asks a no-nonsense voice. He sounds elderly, and when Geralt looks over, he sees a man with greying hair, tall, wearing a satchel across his body.

“He—he turned too quickly, I think, and it’s—his leg, his leg hurts,” Jaskier stammers. “He also, sort of, went away? But he’s back now.”

“ _ He  _ is right here,” Geralt snarls. There’s nothing he hates more than doctors talking about him as if he can’t hear them.

“Of course, my apologies. How are you feeling?” the doctor, Regis, asks him, kneeling down next to him.

“Fine,” Geralt grunts, trying again to get his hands under him. He makes it as far as leaning on his elbows, and Roach huffs and comes around to sit on his lap.

Normally, it would be a good grounding weight, but with his leg so tender right now, every touch is agony. He bites back a yelp and pushes her off.

“For some reason I’m not inclined to believe that,” Regis says dryly. “Am I correct in guessing that your leg is bothering you?”

“…Yes,” Geralt admits sullenly.

“Do you mind if I do an examination?” Regis asks, which throws Geralt for a loop. He’s not used to doctors  _ asking  _ before they do anything. It’s all  _ you need to let us help, it’s for your own good,  _ et cetera.

“Yes,” Geralt throws back, just to be contrary. Truthfully, the pain is getting so bad now he’d take anything to make it stop, but his stubborn nature will always win out. Plus, he wants to know if Regis will actually listen.

“Alright then. Would you like to come with me back to the clinic?” Geralt is once again blindsided by Regis’ easy acceptance of his denial.

But Geralt knows that he truly does need help, now. This isn’t the kind of pain that will go away if he ignores it—with his luck he’s probably fucked his leg up good, and needs actual medical care.

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Do you need assistance getting up?” Regis holds out a hand. Geralt takes it, surprised by the strength with which Regis pulls him up. He’s unbelievably strong for a willowy old man.

Geralt manages standing on his own for an entire three seconds, after which his bad leg collapses under him and he goes tumbling to the ground. Except he never hits it, because Regis is suddenly there, supporting his weight.

The shock of it is too much—his vision goes dark at the edges, then entirely black, and then he knows no more.

\--

He wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. He opens his eyes and sees—nothing. It’s too dark. His breathing picks up—where is he? Why doesn’t he remember how he got here?

He starts really panicking now.  _ Where am I, where am I, why does my leg hurt so bad, fuck— _

A warm, wet tongue licking at his face brings him out of his spiraling thoughts. Roach. She’s here, lying on top of him, and she’s doing her job, calming him down, so he must be safe. He forces himself to think rationally through the slowly-dying panic.

The last thing he recalls is…he was on the farm, and Jaskier was there. Jaskier, who he hasn’t seen in a while, and another person. Regis?

Yes, Regis, the doctor, who asked if he could bring him back to the clinic. He must be there now—and now that he focuses, Geralt can smell the underlying odor of antiseptic, hear the faint hum of distant machines. His eyes pick up the smallest bit of light coming from a crack under what must be the door. He can’t sense anyone else in the room with him.

His gasping breaths slow as he calms down, though his hands still clutch to Roach’s fur like a lifeline. He tenses up briefly when he hears low voices outside the door—he can’t make out what they’re saying, but one set of footsteps retreats, while a second grows closer. The doorknob clicks softly, and Regis pushes the door open slowly, peering around it.

When he sees that Geralt is awake, he smiles warmly. “Geralt,” he greets, voice soft. “My name is Regis. You’re in the Stardew Valley Clinic right now. How do you feel?”

Geralt clears his throat. “Um. Fine. What time is it?”

“Just past ten at night. How’s your leg doing? Jaskier is quite concerned.”

“Hmm. Hurts,” he admits, because fuck, it is  _ really  _ throbbing now. It almost hurts worse than it did earlier.

“I’d imagine. Do you mind if I examine it now?” In spite of his general mistrust, Geralt is truly at his limit.

“Fine,” he grits out. Regis wastes no time, pulling a chair over to the cot Geralt is lying on and flipping on a lamp in the corner, but the light is soft enough that it doesn’t hurt Geralt’s eyes. Despite his brisk manner, Regis’ hands are gentle when he rolls up Geralt’s pant leg.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?” he asks, fingers gently prodding the tender flesh around his scar. Geralt shifts against the slight discomfort.

“I was chopping wood. Turned too fast. Wrenched it,” Geralt supplies.

“Mmm. And do you have any sort of history, any past injury with it?” Well, clearly, judging by the giant fucking scar. But Geralt supposes he's trying to be tactful.

“Yeah. Got—got shot. ‘Bout six months ago.”

If Regis is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Ah, I see. So an old injury, exacerbated?” Geralt nods. “Hmm. Does it hurt often?” Another nod, reluctantly. “And are you taking any medication for it?”

“No. Just anxiety meds.” Regis nods, and, apparently done with his examination, rolls Geralt’s pant leg back down. He’s very fastidious about it all, Geralt notices.

“I’d like to start by prescribing some pain medication, since you look one stiff breeze away from falling over,” Regis says wryly. Geralt can imagine—he feels like shit. “I’d also like to keep you here overnight for observation. Then, with your permission, I’d like to see your medical history—I suspect there’s an underlying cause that led to all this.”

All Geralt really wants is to go home and sleep in his own bed, but he has to agree that it’s safer for him to remain here overnight. He’s also not enthusiastic about Regis digging into his medical history or messing around with his leg, but if it will end this pain, Geralt supposes he can stand it.

Regis gives him some meds to ease his pain, though they take a bit to work. When Geralt can’t fall back asleep, Regis pulls out an old deck of cards and teaches him a game called Gwent. They play into the small hours of the morning, when Geralt catches a quick hour or so of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to make Geralt and Jaskier make up this chapter, but then it would have turned out to be like actually 10k words. so next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a bit late. school is kicking my ASS rn, I really forgot how much I hate online classes. anyway enjoy!

Come morning, Geralt rouses to a knock at the door to his room. “Sorry to wake you,” Regis says. “You have a visitor who’d very much like to check up on you.”

Geralt grunts, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Regis admits Jaskier, who looks wan and tired, though he brightens considerably when he sees Geralt. “Geralt, you’re alright!” he says, rushing in and taking a seat next to the cot.

“Hmm. Been better,” he replies, struggling to sit up. He’s exhausted—the drugs probably have a hold on him still.

“I can believe that, seeing as how you look absolutely terrible,” Jaskier jokes. Then he bites his lip. “But… you’re okay, truly? Not going to collapse again?”

“I’ll be okay, Jaskier.” There’s a pause, as Geralt thinks about how to put his thoughts into words and Jaskier twists his hands together. “I should—”

“I want to—” They both spoke at the same time. Jaskier laughs nervously, gesturing. “You first.”

“I should—apologize,” Geralt says stiffly. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it—me taking my anger out on you, or—or having to deal with my— _ episode,  _ or—”

Jaskier interrupts him. “No, you don’t have to apologize. Well, maybe for the yelling. You're right that you took your anger out on me, something I did  _ not  _ appreciate. But don’t apologize for being in pain, or for needing help.”

“But I could have hurt you. Or Ciri or Dara.”

“Could have, but didn’t. And in the future, we’ll make a plan for what we should do so we can avoid it getting that bad, and so that everyone, including you, stays safe.”

_ The future?  _ Jaskier is talking like he still plans to spend time with Geralt. He doesn’t get the opportunity to voice any of his uncertain thoughts, though; Jaskier is still talking. “And anyways, I owe you an apology, myself. I shouldn’t have been so pushy, should’ve known when to back off.”

“Hmm. You were doing what you thought was best.”

“Yes, but that’s not an excuse. I hope you can forgive me.” He smiles, just a bit. Geralt feels his own face soften in response, and apparently, that’s enough for Jaskier. “Well then, if that’s settled, Regis said you can go home now.”

Finally. Geralt swings his legs over the side of the cot, pausing when pain flares up. Looks like those painkillers are wearing off.

Jaskier doesn’t miss the creases that line Geralt’s forehead. “Regis?” he calls, heading to the door. “Would you mind—ah, perfect!”

Regis walks in the room pushing a wheelchair, which Geralt balks at, but their combined stern looks have him gingerly taking a seat. At least nobody insists on pushing him. They bid Regis goodbye, Geralt shooting him a gruff  _ thanks,  _ and head back to the farm. Jaskier and Roach walk beside him, Jaskier helpfully pointing out ruts in the road along the way.

Once in the cabin, Jaskier putters around, filling a glass of water for Geralt, grabbing his meds, making sure the TV remote is in reach. Geralt transfers himself from the wheelchair to his bed, Roach hopping up immediately after. Her warmth all along his side is a welcome comfort, draining some of the tension out of his tight muscles.

Unfortunately, it looks like today is shaping up to be a bad day, even worse now that the meds from last night are wearing off. Geralt swallows more painkillers, grateful that he didn’t have to get up, and settles back in bed, closing his eyes for a moment.

Jaskier clears his throat, slightly, and Geralt opens his eyes again. He…kind of forgot Jaskier was there, honestly. The pain and lack of sleep are making his head foggy.

“Can I get you anything else?” Jaskier asks hopefully, and Geralt realizes that he doesn’t want to leave. With anyone else, it would annoy him—they would be hovering, incessantly asking him if he needed anything, what they can do to help. But Jaskier… he’s different. He’s not doing this out of obligation, or a need to mother him, or even out of guilt.

And Roach’s warm body feels quite nice against him—it gives him an idea. “Come here.” Jaskier does, and then he’s standing at Geralt’s bedside, almost sitting down on it but then thinking twice about it. “No, sit.”

Jaskier’s expression is turning increasingly hesitant—a quality which Geralt rarely, if ever, sees on him. He decides he doesn’t like it, and grabs Jaskier’s hand, tugging gently until Jaskier has no choice but to lie down next to Geralt. Words are hard right now, but hopefully Jaskier takes his meaning.

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly, but nothing further. Slowly, slowly, watching Geralt’s face for a reaction the whole time, he shifts, so that his head is on Geralt’s chest and he’s in contact with Geralt from his side down to his leg, being extremely careful not to put too much weight on it.

Geralt can feel his muscles relaxing under the weight and warmth, almost soporific in its relief. He finds himself falling into sleep, and then into a dream—warm, dry air on his skin, the sound of shifting sand, and then it’s too hot and the sun is too bright overhead and he can’t move and—

He forces himself awake with a gasp, muscles all clenching at once with the shock of adrenaline that races through him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, instantly alert.

“Nightmare,” he grunts out, slowly unwinding. “Can you—keep me awake?”

“Darling, I really think you need rest,” Jaskier tries, but a look from Geralt has him backtracking. “Right, I’m sorry, overstepping again.” Guilt hits him, then; Geralt knows that Jaskier is right, that he needs to sleep, but how can he explain his bone-deep dread of falling into a nightmare?

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “but I can’t. Don’t make me,” he pleads.

“I won’t. Do you want me to talk? Or I can turn the TV on, and maybe the noise will keep you awake?” he suggests.

“No.” Geralt knows what he wants, but he's afraid to suggest it. Afraid that Jaskier will say no, will say that he’s being ridiculous and needs to sleep.

“Can I sing? Will that help?” Oh, is Jaskier a mind reader? Or does he just know Geralt that well already? Geralt nods; Jaskier shifts a little, so that his head is turned more comfortably, and starts to sing.

“ _ Where the light shivers offshore, through the tides of oceans, we are shining in the rising sun _ ...” His voice is soft, but Geralt feels it more than hears it, the vibrations soothing against his chest. He listens to the way Jaskier’s voice fades in and out, drifting on the melody like a ship on the waves. He’s not quite dozing, but neither is he fully awake, either; he exists only in the notes Jaskier sings.

He doesn’t know how much longer Jaskier sings, before he’s picking his head up from Geralt’s chest, glancing to see if he’s still awake.

Geralt’s eyes meet his and he blushes. “Just checking. How are you feeling?” he whispers. Geralt shrugs. “Want to try a bath? Regis recommended it if you still felt sore.”

“Sure.” He moves to get up, but Jaskier pushes his shoulders back down.

“No, I can run it. You stay here.” Jaskier carefully untangles himself and heads into the bathroom, and Geralt hears the squeak of the faucet as Jaskier runs a bath.

Geralt, too, climbs out of bed, and undresses, wrapping a towel around his waist. The pain in his leg is better, the painkillers at work, so he limps his way over to the bathroom once he hears the water stop.

Jaskier is pouring a truly incredible amount of bubble bath in the tub. As Geralt watches, the bubbles climb ever higher, until they’re threatening to spill out of the tub.

“Jaskier. That’s too many bubbles.”

Jaskier jumps, looking at once guilty and pleading. “No, it’s just what you need to raise your spirits! Trust me, I swear by bubble baths.”

Geralt simply shakes his head. Well, there’s no putting the bubbles back, is there? He sighs and drops the towel, turning to climb into the tub. Jaskier squeaks and turns red, scrambling for the door.

“Right, I’ll leave you in peace, then—” he stammers, almost tripping over himself in his haste to leave.

“Wait. Stay,” Geralt says, before he loses his nerve.

“You’re sure?” Jaskier asks, hands covering his eyes. Geralt climbs in the tub so that Jaskier doesn’t have to face the embarrassment anymore, and at the sound of water splashing in the tub, Jaskier lowers his hand. The sight of Geralt sitting in the tub, absolutely drowning in bubbles, is too much; he starts giggling.

“Shut up and get over here,” Geralt demands, fighting not to break into a smile himself. Jaskier perches on the side of the tub and grabs the shampoo, working it into a lather between his hands. Geralt obligingly tips his head back.

Jaskier hums while he washes Geralt’s hair, simple mindless tunes that keep him occupied. Geralt basks in the attention, leg momentarily forgotten.

When he finishes, Jaskier wipes his hands on a towel and putters around the bathroom, opening drawers and cabinets, frowning when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. “How do you not have a single bottle of lotion in this entire house?” he grouses.

Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Why would I need lotion?”

“So that I can give you a massage, duh. Oh well, guess I’ll just have to do without. Now come on, out of the tub, if you’re done soaking. The water’s getting cold.”

Geralt sighs, but gets out of the tub. Jaskier turns around while he dries off and wraps the towel around his waist and pulls on some underwear. He goes to grab a pair of sweatpants, but Jaskier stops him.

“I said I would give you a massage, didn’t I? On the bed face down, chop chop.” Geralt hesitates; Jaskier’s smile drops. “Unless you don’t want to. Sorry, I should have thought before I—”

“No, it—it sounds…nice,” Geralt says lamely. Then, at a loss for what else to do, he lies down, burying his face in his arms to hide his embarrassment.

Moments later, he feels a light touch on his shoulder blade, and only barely manages not to flinch. Lying in such a vulnerable position has him fighting back his instinctive uneasiness. Another hand joins the first, skimming over his skin, and it’s suddenly uncomfortable. He shifts away, and Jaskier lifts his hands immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Too…light. Feels bad.” He doesn’t know how else to explain it, besides that the gentle touches set his teeth on edge.

“More pressure, then?” Geralt nods. Jaskier’s hands return to his shoulders, pressing firmly this time, and little by little Geralt’s tension vanishes again. Jaskier works his way down Geralt’s back, and once he’s finished there, clever thumbs start massaging his calves. Geralt groans. “Geralt? You okay?”

“Yeah,” he answers hoarsely. “Keep going.”

Jaskier does, working all the way up Geralt’s good leg first, and then he stops. Geralt lifts his head. “Why’d you stop?”

“I don’t want to aggravate your leg.”

“Hmm. Should be fine. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Jaskier huffs but continues his massage, slowly approaching the old scar tissue marring his thigh. Just as he’s beginning to work his way over it, Geralt feels pain threatening to pounce. “There. Stop there,” he instructs, and Jaskier instantly obeys.

Geralt groans again and turns over, hazily meeting Jaskier's eyes. He’s biting his lip nervously, arms crossed over his body. He’s also uncharacteristically quiet. “Hmm. You want to know what happened,” he guesses, and Jaskier blushes. So that’s a yes.

“Not if you don’t want to share. Boundaries, overstepping, remember?” He looks guilty even as he says this, as if he feels bad for being curious.

Geralt does remember. But Jaskier has shown admirable restraint so far, not prying at all since their argument, and he feels like he owes it to Jaskier, who’s been so steadfast in his support.

“I used to be in the military,” he begins. “Some of the guys there, they really liked picking on people, especially easy targets. Nobody would ever really do anything about it. I tried to step in one day, tell them to back off, but it went wrong.” He takes a deep breath. “One of them had gotten a gun—don’t know how—and it went off. Hit me in the leg.” Geralt pointedly doesn’t look at Jaskier’s face—he doesn’t want to see the pity that must be there. “When they tried to sort out what happened, those fuckers told everyone that I threatened them with a gun, ended up hurting myself in the process. So not only was I stuck in the hospital for months, I was also dishonorably discharged,” he finishes.

“Those—those  _ fuckers!  _ How  _ dare  _ they!” Just as suddenly as his ire was sparked, Jaskier douses it. “Sorry, anger won’t help. I’m sorry you went through that. I can’t even imagine…” he trails off.

Geralt shrugs, feigning indifference, although deep inside he feels something loosen inside of him. It’s the first time he's willingly told someone the entire story, not had it forced out of him by a family member or had to recount the entire ordeal for a shitty therapist.

“Anyway. I’m glad you felt like you could tell me,” Jaskier says softly. “And I would very much like to give you a hug right now.”

Well, Jaskier’s already had his hands on nearly every inch of Geralt’s body today; a hug is just a drop in the bucket, comparatively. Geralt dips his head in a nod. Jaskier sits down on the bed and wraps his arms around Geralt tightly—not too tight, but the perfect amount of pressure, grounding and comforting all at once. Geralt brings his own arms up, returning the hug, and feels Jaskier relax a little in response.

Eventually the hug ends, and Jaskier scrubs at his face. “Well. How are you feeling now? I could put on the TV, or I could sing some more, or…”

Geralt abruptly feels guilty for how much of Jaskier's time and attention he's been taking up. Surely Jaskier has other things he could be doing, instead of babysitting him all day. “You don’t have to stay. You can go…I don’t know, what would you normally be doing instead of here with my sorry ass?”

“Geralt, love, it’s no burden. Not if it’s you.”

_ Love.  _ Suddenly, Geralt remembers that it’s not the first time Jaskier has called him that. He said it while Geralt was writhing around in pain in the dirt, though at the time he didn’t register it.

“You called me that before.”

“What? Oh,” Jaskier laughs, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Sorry, it just sort of slipped out. I’ll stop.” 

“I don’t mind,” Geralt replies mildly, and finds that it’s true. Why doesn’t he mind? Well, clearly, it’s not an  _ actual  _ declaration of love, just a silly nickname. Jaskier probably calls all of his friends ‘love’.

“Alright then. Love,” Jaskier says, biting his lip and smiling. “Anyways, I don’t have anywhere to be. Want me to sing again? I could grab my guitar.”

“Hmm. Can you play that song again? The first one you ever played for me?”

“Of course, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song Jaskier sings is "I love you" by woodkid. he's not subtle and neither am I. for real though it's a very good song about unrequited love. there's an incredible quintet version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-nFIo4f71g), or the original version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLWExTnR3zc)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> really earning that angst and fluff tag!

Geralt ends up dozing off after several songs, to his annoyance, but when he wakes up nightmare-free some hours later, he can’t be mad about the relief that rest has brought.

He looks to his side, where Jaskier has also fallen asleep, guitar laid lovingly next to him. His face looks calm in sleep, entirely blank of expression like it never is when he’s awake. It’s a new, vulnerable side of Jaskier that Geralt feels privileged to see, like it’s something secret.

Geralt watches as the evening shadows play over his face, the curve of his lips, the line of his cheekbones. Like this, he might as well be carved from stone, lost in a dream.

Studying his face so closely, Geralt is able to see the minute shifts in his expression, the twitch of muscles here and there, that signal Jaskier is waking.

Except his eyes don’t open, and the creases lining his face get more pronounced, Jaskier full-on frowning now. His fingers twitch, and his lips flutter like he's trying to say something. Still dreaming?

“Jaskier,” he whispers, trying to wake him gently. No response. Louder, “Jaskier.”

“No,” he whimpers, so quiet that Geralt almost doesn’t hear it. “No, please, I’m sorry.”

That’s concerning. “Jaskier,” he tries again, sitting up and putting a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, shaking it gently.

Jaskier gasps and his eyes fly open, before he flinches back, hands coming up to protect his face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, brokenly. “Are you alright?” _What a dumb fucking question, of course he isn’t alright,_ a voice inside of him admonishes, but he ignores it.

“Geralt?” he asks in a small voice. “Sorry, I was…”

“Nightmare?” Geralt asks. How ironic, that he spent the whole day worrying over his own nightmares, and it ends up being Jaskier who has one.

“Yeah,” Jaskier replies, sitting up and drawing his knees close to his chest. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Yeah, bullshit. Geralt has told that same lie too many times not to recognize it instantly. “Jaskier,” he says again, voice soft, trying to catch his gaze. Jaskier finally looks up, eyes brimming with emotion, then drops his head back onto his knees.

“Yeah, okay, I had a nightmare. Sorry to bother you,” he mutters, but that won’t do. Geralt hesitantly places a hand on Jaskier’s arm, and when he doesn’t immediately shrug him off, Geralt tugs him into a sideways hug.

“You’re not bothering me,” Geralt reassures him. “If anything, I’ve been bothering you all day. Now let me return the favor?”

Jaskier takes a shuddering breath, but nods, leaning more into Geralt’s embrace. Geralt is happy to just sit there in silence with him, but Jaskier takes another deep breath, like he’s bracing for something, and starts to speak.

“It’s all a lie,” he says. “All of it. The laughter, and the bubbly personality, and—even the fucking music. All lies.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, confused.

“This isn’t—this isn’t _me,_ Geralt. I’m not some fucking flower child who goes around singing songs all day. I’m—I’m _broken_ inside _,_ this is all just a lie—” he dissolves into sobs.

“Hey, shhh. I’ve got you,” Geralt soothes, gently rocking him back and forth. “You’re not broken, Jaskier, I promise.”

“No, but I am, though. I’m a good for nothing hack who—who can’t even fool himself—”

Where is this coming from? In all the weeks and months he’s known Jaskier, he’s never seen this darkness lurking inside. Was he too distracted by his own problems to notice? Or was Jaskier that good at hiding it?

Geralt shoves his confusion aside and focuses on calming Jaskier down, rubbing a hand up and down his back while he sobs against him. Eventually the tears dry up, leaving Jaskier shaking, hollow, against Geralt.

“Sorry,” he says again, nose stuffy from crying. He pushes away and Geralt lets him go, though he feels the loss keenly. “Sorry. Guess I’m just tired—don’t know what came over me.” He smiles weakly, trying to deflect, but Geralt won’t let him keep hiding.

“I know what trauma looks like, Jaskier. You don’t have to tell me, but I’m here for you.”

Jaskier sighs again, but this time it’s more of a bracing thing, like he's readying himself for something. “I suppose I owe it to you, after all,” he jokes, quick to correct himself when he sees Geralt ready to argue. “No, this isn’t out of obligation. I trust you, love. I’ve just…never really told anyone, before.”

Geralt nods, gesturing for him to continue.

“At Oxenfurt, I had this boyfriend, Valdo.” He pauses, gauging Geralt’s reaction. When there’s none, he continues. “It was great, we were great together, but then after we graduated, I got an offer. The Novigrad Symphony Orchestra.” Jaskier smiles a bit at that. “Valdo got…jealous, I guess, would be the word. He’d always say he was happy for me, but then I’d come home sometimes and I’d just be exhausted from the long day, and he’d be all cold and distant, and I wouldn’t even know why.

“And eventually I got sick of it, so I asked what his problem was—as if I didn’t know, fucking idiot. And he just got so mad.” By this point, his voice is so small, mirroring his body language, all tightly drawn up into himself.

Geralt longs to pull Jaskier into another hug, but doesn’t want to interrupt him. He settles for placing a hand palm-up where he can reach it if needed.

“So—we fought. I said horrible, terrible things, and he gave as good as he got. And then it turned physical, and he pushed me at one point, and then I guess I hit my head. I woke up in the hospital and he was there, crying, apologizing, saying he didn’t mean any of it. I believed him,” he says bitterly. “But nothing changed, he was still so cold and then—then I messed up too often at practice and they kicked me out, and then he was all I had. And I hated him, but I loved him too.

“But then I couldn’t find any work, and we fought again, and I decided that was it. I grabbed everything I could fit in a bag and just bought the first bus ticket I could find. I didn’t mean to stay, but Valdo didn’t even—he didn’t even call or anything. And Zoltan put me up in the saloon for a few days until I found my feet, and then, well, here I am.”

Hmm. Geralt isn’t surprised he's having nightmares, with a past like that. “This Valdo sounds like a real piece of work,” he growls. What he wouldn’t give to be able to take a crack at him for daring to hurt Jaskier—Jaskier, who shines so brightly despite the darkness inside of him.

Jaskier laughs wetly. “He is. He’s horrible. I don’t know why I was ever with him. Too desperate and pathetic to find anyone else who would take me, I guess.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that about yourself.”

Jaskier shrugs halfheartedly. They lapse into silence, Jaskier staring grimly down at the bed, Geralt watching Roach, who has slept through the entire thing. _Must be nice,_ he thinks.

As if she senses that he’s thinking about her, she picks her head up and looks at him, then at Jaskier, who’s caught unawares when she suddenly noses her way into his lap.

“Hello there, dear,” he coos, hands hovering above her. “Can I pet?” he asks Geralt.

He nods. “She’s not on duty right now.” Jaskier dives in, scratching vigorously behind the ears and up and down her sides. Her tail wags.

Geralt gives Jaskier a few minutes alone with her, limping to the bathroom to wash up some. Spending all day in bed always makes him feel a bit gross.

He’s in the middle of washing his face when he hears a knock at the door, and instantly his senses are on high alert again. Who could possibly be showing up at dinnertime?

He dries his face off quickly, but Jaskier beats him to answering the door. He comes out of the bathroom to see Ciri and two adults—her parents?—standing on the porch.

“Geralt! This is Pavetta and Duny, Ciri’s parents,” Jaskier introduces. Geralt hangs back; though he's sure they’re harmless, his hypervigilance won’t let him get any closer. In fact, he’d prefer it if they left, immediately. It’s been too fucking difficult of a day to throw meeting strangers on top of it all.

Jaskier, the absolute saint that he is, somehow reads this on Geralt’s face and subtly lets the door close a bit, blocking them from view. “Sorry, Geralt’s feeling a bit under the weather right now.”

“Oh, of course. We just wanted to drop this off, after Ciri told us that he wasn’t feeling well. Have a nice night!” Pavetta says, and then they’re gone, Jaskier kicking the door closed behind them. In his hands is an enormous casserole dish covered in tinfoil, which he sniffs.

“Eggplant parmesan,” he declares after a moment, placing the dish on the counter in the kitchen. “This’ll make a handy dinner, especially seeing as how we skipped lunch.”

Geralt grunts. Ciri…told her parents about him? The weird loner who lives alone on the farm and won’t talk to anyone except Jaskier and a couple of kids?

“Come on, love, let’s eat before this gets cold,” Jaskier urges, pulling two plates out of the cabinet. He evidently almost knows the kitchen better than Geralt, at this point.

The meal is delicious, and even though he’s just woken up from a nap, Geralt feels his eyes drifting shut as his stomach fills. Jaskier is yawning too, though he takes care of wrapping up the leftovers and washing dishes while Geralt feeds Roach.

With the chores done, Jaskier grabs his guitar and starts pulling on his shoes. Of course—he must be exhausted after taking care of Geralt all day, and sleeping poorly in someone else’s bed.

“I could walk you home,” Geralt offers, feeling unbearably awkward, but remembering the manners that Vesemir tried to instill in him and his brothers.

“I appreciate it, but don’t be silly. I’ll be fine, and you should stay off that leg.” Jaskier slings his guitar case over his back and steps forward to pull Geralt into a lingering hug. “Now, get some rest without me hogging the bed, and I’ll be over tomorrow after tutoring,” Jaskier instructs. “Bye, love!”

“Thank you, Jaskier. Sleep well,” Geralt bids him, and sits heavily on the bed after Jaskier closes the door behind him. He’ll be fine, right? Geralt isn’t sure, but it seems like Jaskier might have been putting up a front again—or was he truly able to bounce so quickly between emotional states? Geralt has the uncomfortable feeling it’s the former. Hopefully he’ll be alright tonight.

Geralt swallows some more painkillers and tries to sleep, but despite the way his entire body droops with exhaustion, his mind keeps racing. Anxiety over his leg, concern for Jaskier, and worry for the farm all whirl around his brain. It’s a long time before he can fall asleep.

Morning comes far too early, with sunlight streaming in through the window and Roach whining to be let outside. Geralt grumbles but forces himself to sit up, taking his leg through a series of stretches, before opening the door for Roach. To his surprise, he sees Vesemir coming up the road towards the cabin, arms laden with boxes and bags.

“Vesemir? What are you doing here?” Geralt calls.

“Do you really think we would just leave you alone up here with your leg in such bad shape? Move out of the way, I’ve brought supplies,” Vesemir says, shouldering his way past Geralt and dumping his cargo on the table. It’s enough food to feed an army—or Geralt and his brothers for a couple of days.

“What’s all this?”

“Gotta make sure you’ve got enough to eat. Don’t try and tell me you feel up to cooking or going to the saloon right now.”

“…No, but you didn’t have to do all this.”

“Of course I didn’t. Now go sit down, I can tell by your face that you're in pain.”

Geralt huffs but pulls out a chair, watching as Vesemir puts everything away. He’s still a bit shocked at the sudden arrival.

“I’ll be taking care of the house mornings, and in the afternoon Eskel will come over to help out with the farm. Lambert will handle evenings,” Vesemir tells him, as if it’s a fact. Geralt supposes it is; once Vesemir gets an idea in his head, it’s nigh impossible to argue. “And when are you going to schedule your next appointment with Regis?”

How does Vesemir even know? _So much for doctor-patient confidentiality_ , Geralt grouses.

As if he can tell what Geralt is thinking, Vesemir continues. “Oh, get that look off your face, Wolf. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Had to get the story out of Triss, and that was only by threatening never to order another flower arrangement from her again.”

Geralt gives him a look, but gives up. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m going back at all. You know how I feel about doctors.”

“Hmph. Well, I’d hoped Regis would be different, at least.”

“What, that’s it? Not going force me to go?”

Vesemir sighs. “No, I’ve realized it’s up to you. You’re only going to heal as much you allow yourself to. Besides, the last time I tried to force you to do something, it turned out horribly.”

Ah, yep, Vesemir’s pretty much the reason for his setback, albeit indirectly. Geralt doesn’t blame him, and appreciates the change in attitude all the same.

“Hmm. Not your fault,” Geralt reassures.

After that, they talk about other, less harrowing things, like Vesemir’s blossoming love for Mignole, the museum curator. It’s sweet, the way his eyes go distant when talking about her. Geralt hopes something more than twice-weekly tea will come of it.

Vesemir leaves sometime after lunch, and Geralt limps onto the porch to see him trading shifts with Eskel, who pulls Geralt into a hug as soon as he gets close enough. Geralt inhales the warm, familiar scents of goat and grass.

“Good to see you up and about,” Eskel says, patting him on the back before releasing him. “Don’t push it, though. Why don’t you pull a chair out here and tell me what needs to be done?”

They spend the afternoon like that, making light conversation as Eskel does as he’s directed. Geralt doesn’t even drift off once, something he’s proud of after a bad day yesterday. Right around three o’clock, Jaskier shows up with Ciri and Dara, and they dive into helping Eskel with enthusiasm. Geralt watches Jaskier carefully, but there’s no sign of his cracked mask like yesterday. He’s cheerful as ever, and Geralt doesn’t want to push it—though they need to talk about it more eventually. He leaves it be for now.

Lambert shows up when he gets off work in the evening, full of insults like always, but they’re the kind with love behind them, Geralt can tell. He prepares dinner while Jaskier walks Ciri and Dara home.

“Come get your tacos before I eat them all,” Lambert yells through the open window, and Geralt’s stomach growls at the mention of food—especially Lambert’s food, which is always excellent. He adds just the right amount of spice every time, but refuses to tell anyone what the ingredients are.

The tacos are indeed delicious, despite the way Geralt’s tongue feels like it’s on fire. Lambert and Eskel bid him goodbye after dinner, and he goes to bed that night feeling very well-loved indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really tired so if there are any typos please let me know! 
> 
> updated chapter count, because this is going slower than I thought. might end up being like 10 chapters? 11? who knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it! also, follow me on [tumblr](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com/) if you want!
> 
> and for anyone interested, here's the list of character counterparts from the games:  
> \- Renfri – Robin/Linus  
> \- Yennefer – Wizard  
> \- Jaskier – Leah/Elliott/Penny  
> \- Chireadan – Pierre  
> \- Eskel – Marnie  
> \- Triss – Evelyn/Maru  
> \- Lambert – Shane  
> \- Ciri – Vincent  
> \- Dara – Jas  
> \- Regis – Harvey  
> \- Zoltan – Gus  
> \- Priscilla – Emily  
> \- Vesemir – Grandpa/Lewis  
> \- Calanthe – Evelyn  
> \- Eist – George  
> \- Pavetta – Jodi  
> \- Duny – Kent  
> \- Aiden – Clint  
> \- Mignole – Gunther  
> \- Stregobor - Morris  
> \- Keira - Hayley  
> not everyone will show up in this fic, but some might show up in future oneshots!


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